


Without the Storm's Red Ruin

by kyrilu



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, Dark, Dubious Consentacles, Inappropriate Use of Obscurial Powers, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: For me, Mr. Graves asks of him. And Credence is more than willing to oblige.In which Grindelwald!Graves realizes that Credence is the Obscurial.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, magical fog monster tentacle fic...

On a dusky Sunday evening, a fire sweeps through the New Salem Philanthropic Society’s chapel and burns it to the ground. They say it was a fire - they say that there was a gas explosion, or an upset candle, or perhaps it had something to do with the oncoming thunderstorm.

But this is how it happens: Credence Barebone stands in the chapel looking outside a dusty window.

His mother is telling stories of witches again.

Witches, she says, are the driving forces of vice and destruction. They bring about God’s wrath. All of mankind suffers because of God’s judgment; this is why there was the war, this is why children are hungry on the streets; this is why we must bear the burden to root out witches.

The soft, healing press of Mr. Graves’ hands against his felt nothing like a sin. It felt nothing like a vice--or a curse--or a mark from the lash of his belt.

And it is this moment when he notices that Mr. Graves is by the half-open door of the chapel. Watching in the back, clothed in the dark coat of his, his hands in his pockets.

Credence feels a surge of joy, but he realizes that Mr. Graves seems to be scanning the churchgoers, his eyes thoughtful--of course. He is looking for that child of his, the special one he spoke about. He is not here for Credence.

Disappointment sinks in Credence’s stomach, heavy and leaden, and he chastises himself for being selfish and desperate.

His mother’s words before the congregation filter back in his ears, and he hears her, she is talking about those with magic, those with spirits-- _ye shall not seek to them to be defiled by them...they shall die the death: they shall stone them to death, their blood shall be upon them._

Credence feels a flash of abrupt anger. It is so strong that he thinks he will be sick on the sensation; it is a feeling like dizzy detachment.

Mr. Graves’ eyes are suddenly on Credence. He has _seen_ something. He makes a motion with his hand, and quietly, as less obviously as he can, Credence makes his way toward the back of the church. He stands near the half-open door, wondering--wondering what Mr. Graves wants to ask of him.

He is struck by the unexpected intensity in which Mr. Graves regards him.

“Perhaps it was a trick of the light,” Mr. Graves murmurs, as if almost to himself. Then he shakes his head. He looks up at Credence and says, “Tell me something. What do you dream of?”

The question throws Credence off balance. He doesn’t understand. “I rarely remember my dreams, sir.”

“Do you dream of flying through black tunnels? Do you dream of tearing into buildings? What do you see?” Mr. Graves has his head tipped forward; their foreheads are almost brushing. “Tell me.”

 _Tell me._ Credence is drawn to Mr. Graves’ tantalizing closeness, the near brush of skin on skin. He breathes in, as if he could inhale the warmness of almost skin contact into his lungs.

“Sometimes I have strange dreams,” he whispers. “There is something tearing at my chest and biting into me piece by piece. Perhaps it’s--a dream of the demons that my ma has talked about, possessing me.”

“It is not a demon.”

“They were dreams,” Credence says with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry--I know that you want to find--”

“You’re the one I was looking for,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence feels something in the air shift. “It seems like he was no child at all. You are him. You are him, and you have a wondrous gift.”

Credence doesn’t know what to say. Mr. Graves must be mistaken. He feels the dizziness strike him again, the shakiness, and Mr. Graves presses forward, his hands reaching to encircle Credence’s wrists. Holding them firmly there in place.

“I saw your eyes flash white,” Mr. Graves says. “They flashed white again just now. There is something inside of you. Something so beautiful and special.”

Credence is...entranced again. Mr. Graves’ grip is on his wrists, and it tightens, and this moment feels momentous, important-- _beautiful_ , _special--_ he’s never known anything like this before.

“You were wronged by your mother and this pathetic upbringing,” Mr. Graves continues. “You must be angry. Suffering.”

“It’s not my place to be angry,” Credence says, softly.

“You have the right to it,” Mr. Graves says. “I want you to do something for me. I need you to let go. For me. Let the Obscurus take over--let that dark force inside of you be free right here. Haven’t you heard enough of your mother’s hateful sermons?”

It’s like a prayer, the way Mr. Graves says _for me,_  while his fingers make patterns on Credence’s wrists. This is--this is a gift--Credence tells himself. This all-encompassing shadow in his nightmares is a gift.

Mr. Graves’ hands trail away. He is waiting for Credence to change.

Credence doesn’t know how he summons the darkness. He brings it to the surface, pulls it around himself like a new winter coat, a second skin.

There is open awe on Mr. Graves’ face. It is fulfillment; it is approval; it is how you would look at something holy.

“For me,” Mr. Graves says again. His eyes are half-shuttered. Nearly imperceptible tremors quiver on his body.

The churchgoers in the chapel _drop._

Scars mar their faces. There is barely any time for anyone to scream. Women, children, and men crumple as the shadow overtakes the church, and Percival Graves _watches_ with a wild happiness.

Credence barely registers when he overtakes his own mother.

When he is finished, Mr. Graves says, gentle, “That’s enough. You did so well.”

He transforms in Mr. Graves’ arms, from shadow to man, and Mr. Graves strokes his hair while he shakes. Credence sinks into Mr. Graves’ hold.

“I killed them,” Credence says. He feels...hollow.

Mr. Graves quotes scripture into the shell of Credence’s ear--and Credence can feel the shape of Mr. Graves’ smile as his mouth brushes against skin. “ _Vengeance is mine_ ,” he breathes, “ _I_   _will repay._ You are free, my boy.”

Then Mr. Graves extends his wand forward--he says, _Incendio_ \--and he sets the church ablaze.

It’s almost fitting, Credence thinks, as Mr. Graves vanishes them both from the chapel. These flames look like the fire illustrated on the Second Salemers’ banners. But they are the ones burning instead.

* * *

When they reappear to another place, the first thing Credence feels is Mr. Graves’ mouth on his. He gasps, and then he kisses back, kisses back, his lips clumsy and dry and uncertain.

Mr. Graves guides him down towards a bed in the room.

“I know,” Mr. Graves says, “that you have wanted this since we met.” There is amusement glittering in his eyes, dark and bright.

“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes. “I know that it’s a sin.”

“Non-magical people call many things sinful or evil,” Mr. Graves says. “You know very well how they call magic a sin. It’s not. What you did at that chapel was beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. You create...devastation, but it isn’t evil, you _cleanse_. There is something...pure about an Obscurus. An Obscurus is the result of repression and pain, but there’s an untainted, undefiled wildness to it.”

Mr. Graves waves his hand, and Credence’s clothes are gone. His eyes widen and he starts to stutter out loud, but Mr. Graves presses his finger to his lips and says, _“Shh,_ it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Mr. Graves’ hand nestles against the hollow of Credence’s naked hip, touching the indentation of bone. His thumb rubs against the pale skin. It is almost unbearable, the utter _closeness_ of Mr. Graves’ hand to his burgeoning erection, and he lets out a half-choked whimper.

“I will not touch you,” Mr. Graves says. “Not yet.”

“You--you need to,” Credence says. He knows he needs this; Mr. Graves can’t, he shouldn’t.

And just like back in the chapel, Mr. Graves tells him, “I want you to do something. For me.”

There is nothing else that Credence can do except nod. He is willing to do anything for Mr. Graves.

“I need you to let go again,” Mr. Graves says. “Let it out, but not all the way. But only slightly. Reach out. Test your limits.” His hand is still holding the side of Credence’s waist, steadying him, and Credence releases a shuddering breath.

Credence is terrified of this dark, dark thing inside of him, but Mr. Graves looks at him through half-lidded, hungry eyes and Credence knows that Mr. Graves is saying without words that he has a claim to it. This dark thing is _his;_  he is enamored with it; it is beautiful and dangerous and it’s _inside_ of Credence, always on the brink, always on the edges.

There is a rustling noise like a whisper, and the fog-like waves start to roll over his shoulders and trickle from his fingertips. They are engulfed in shadow, the wizard in black and his naked, trembling boy.

This dark thing--this Obscurus--is _alive._ It is alive and it feels what Credence feels, or perhaps it is Credence, an extension of himself, and the shadows seem to taste the palpable desire that is gripping him--

\--and it touches him.

A tendril of black snakes out to brush against his cock. Credence whimpers, and he leans away into Mr. Graves’ supporting hand on his hip, but Mr. Graves lets out a soft sound like a breathless laugh.

“Let it happen,” Mr. Graves murmurs.

“I--I can’t control it,” Credence says. A shudder wracks his body, and he convulses. Then the shadows seem to catch him, anchor him. It is as if the wind has hands--insistent and creeping--and the dark misty tendrils wrap around his cock.

He has never felt a sensation like this before. The shadow is immersive and _devouring_ , enclosing around the curve of his hips, stroking the head of his cock, cupping his buttocks, and _taking, taking, taking._

“Please,” he begs it (himself), because this is too fast and unbearable. He finds himself falling to his knees, while Mr. Graves watches, still standing above him, the shadows still clutching Credence.

He is on his knees with his head half-tipped back while he gazes back up at Mr. Graves desperately--his mouth is half-open while he gasps with every touch on his cock--and he thinks--no, he’s saying it aloud, he’s crying, there are tears on his cheeks--

“I’m scared,” he says. “Please, please, tell me to stop. It’s hurting me.”

 _"Shh,"_ Mr. Graves says. “Credence, I need you to be brave for me.”

The shadows are becoming rougher. They press into the surface of his skin so hard that Credence thinks that they could form bruises. They drag against his stomach and his nipples; his thighs and his hip; and they are merciless when they take his cock again, enclosing around it, wisps of shadow making him moan--

“ _No,"_ Credence says, when he feels the tendrils touch his entrance. But the force does not bend to his will. He arches against the ghostly feeling of penetration and he crumples to the ground, pushed down from his former kneeling position onto his stomach and chest.

It is inside him. It is inside him, and he lets out a muffled keen, the tears running more freely down his cheeks.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Mr. Graves murmurs. “You’re a good boy. You look so beautiful like this. This is what’s been inside of you all along.”

Credence knows that he is still overwhelmed, still terrified. But Mr. Graves is right, there is something about this that is utterly pleasurable-- _good boy_ \--because Credence is lost in the way that the shadow is burrowing inside of him.

One of the tendrils curl upward, and it slips into his mouth, a strange half-solid, half-gaseous form that makes him choke, saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. Credence feels like a vessel, a thing to be filled, touched and restrained and taken and breathless.

When he climaxes, his eyes are squeezed shut, and he is panting out, “ _please, please, please.”_

He never imagined his first time like this. Before, when he found himself brave enough to daydream, he would think of Mr. Graves drawing him close into an embrace. He would think of Mr. Graves pressing tender kisses against his neck, his chest, his stomach, trailing downward, treating him softly, gently, every inch of his body made warm in careful worship.

Now, Mr. Graves kneels down to touch the tears on his cheeks. His eyes are like flint, like distant and approving steel, taking in Credence’s state, spent and empty, while the Obscurus is dissipating.

“You were so good,” Mr. Graves says. “You did that for me.”

“Yes,” Credence says in a hoarse whisper. He is shivering, and the stickiness at his cock feels uncomfortable and strange.

He closes his eyes. Mr. Graves kisses him, kisses him, and now motionless, Credence does not kiss back.


End file.
